


Drunken Lullabies

by notfreyja



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfreyja/pseuds/notfreyja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has inconvenient habits, especially when they’ve been drinking. John Watson’s just happens to be a bit more embarrassing than the average person’s. He keeps waking up in his flatmate’s bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking back, Sherlock probably should have seen this coming. John had made himself at home in every other part of his life, after all.

It had been seamless. In the roughly six weeks that had passed since the Cabbie Incident, John Watson had been flawlessly transplanted into Baker Street as though by the hand of a gifted surgeon, seamless and irreversible. His and Sherlock’s lives fit snuggly together just as two bones of the skull. They began to coexist, side by side, meshed together at the suture; a tightly-knit synarthroses growing between them without any conscious awareness from either of the two men.

The fridge had food in it nowadays: actual unspoilt, mould-free, edible food. Medical texts had filtered in, filling the gaps on the bookshelves, nestled happily amongst the countless tomes on chemistry and forensics. Cleaning products had materialized under the bathroom sink, just as the questionable dark spots in the shower’s tile grout began to disappear.

The mugs in the cabinet gained companions at the same time that two laptops began what would become a lifelong feud over the sole charger (don’t ask what happened to the other one, it really wasn't Sherlock’s fault no matter what John might say), and the toiletries in the bathroom had to learn to share counter-space.

Overall, the stitching had been neat; a tight, even line of thread weaving the two together in nearly every aspect of their lives. They shared a bathroom and a desk and a biologically contaminated refrigerator. They shared the rent and The Work. They even shared nights that Sherlock couldn’t sleep (even though he insisted that he doesn’t make that much noise on purpose).

In hindsight, Sherlock ought to have realized that they would end up sharing a bed as well.

It was after a case. Everything was after a case if you were to ask John. Sherlock slept after a case, they had dinner after a case, he might be able to use the table for food after a case.

And sometimes, John went to the pub after a case because - believe it or not - he did have friends outside of Sherlock’s personal universe and enjoyed spending time with them now and again.

So it was in the wee hours of the morning when John Watson staggered out of a cab and tripped over the lip of the front step, crashing straight into the door of the building. One might think that the resulting undignified yelping and swearing would result in at least one of the residents awakening, but thanks to Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers and Sherlock’s post-case coma, John was left to fend for himself.

“Buggering fuck.” He muttered, unsteadily rising to his feet and rubbing his eyes. “Keys…”

John was beyond grateful that no one was actually there to witness what was arguably his least dignified moment yet, as he spent three minute fishing his key ring out of his pocket and another five finding the correct key, only to have difficulty in slotting it into the keyhole. What followed was a rather creative and frankly impressive string of expletives that are best left unrecorded.

He was just about to cut his losses and curl up on the front stoop (Mrs. Hudson would finds him in the morning, he was sure of it) when the handle gave a little click.

“YES!” John shouted, not caring that he’d probably woken a neighbor as he stumbled into the hall, violently yanking his keys out of the lock before slamming the door shut behind him. He was feeling pretty good about himself… then he remembered that his bedroom was on the third floor. And was the staircase actually wobbling, or was that just the alcohol?

By the time he reached the landing of B flat, John figured quite seriously that he deserved another medal - he was quite certain that those stairs had attempted murder at least six times. With this in mind, it was really no surprise that the doctor ended up staring at the next flight of steps as if he were sizing up an enemy soldier, only to grudgingly accept that his defeat would be inevitable. Honestly, he felt as though he had already fallen down the stairs far too much that night - or was it morning? Thus he felt perfectly justified in his decision to commandeer the bed on the first floor (it wasn’t as if Sherlock would be using it anyway, the damn insomniac).

So it was with drunken resolve that John Watson entered the flat and started toward the bedroom that unbeknownst to him was actually occupied.  
He was actually starting to feel vaguely proud of himself and his ability to dodge stationary objects as he threw himself onto the mattress in the darkened room.

Now, it probably does not come as a surprise that Sherlock Holmes is not one to appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by an unknown person deciding to sleep atop his mattress, and consequently, him. It should therefore also be rather expected that when facing such a scenario, his instinctive response would be to promptly shove the intruder to the floor.

“Sherlock what the hell?”

He blinked, then reached down a hand to help John back up. “Not precisely what I was about to say, but you got the general attitude.”

The drunken doctor grumbled, but took the offered hand to aide himself back up to the bed. “Shut up.” This time he did manage to hit the bedding, and he closed his eyes with a sigh.

Sherlock, however, did not share John’s (in his opinion) magical ability to sleep on command, and was still rightfully irritated by the impromptu wake-up call.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

He rolled his eyes and settled back in, staring crossly at his friend. “What are you doing?” Conveniently asleep, John did not reply, and Sherlock sighed again.

“You’re drooling on my pillow. John!”

Now the problem here is that, once woken, it is very difficult for Sherlock to go back to sleep. He really ought to have just called it quits and left the bed to his uninvited visitor, but something held him back. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but suddenly the idea of leaving the overcrowded mattress was rather unappealing.

John looked quite entertaining in his sleep, to put in frankly. His face was smashed against the pillow, adding wrinkles that weren’t there during the day. He had one arm twisted around and the other pinned beneath his chest in a manner that was bound to trigger an ache in his shoulder the following morning. His mouth was open, and he was actually drooling. It made a rather unattractive picture.

So needless to say, Sherlock could not fathom why, exactly, he was still staring- it wasn’t as though this was a particularly pleasing view- or why he was still in bed, for that matter. It wasn’t as if he was going to be getting any more sleep. All logical thinking was telling him that he ought to go and attempt to nap on the couch.

But something held him back.

In fact, it wasn’t until the sun joined him in his silent (and to be honest, vaguely creepy) watch over his blogger that he finally managed to get himself to exit the bedroom. Something was wrong with him.

When John Watson finally awakened, it was to the dull roar of a pounding headache. “Jesus,” he groaned, pushing himself up and rubbing at the twinge he could already feel developing in his shoulder. Bracing himself for whatever horror story the inebriated version of himself had left in his wake, he slowly blinked open his eyes.

The relief he felt at finding himself alone in bed with his clothing intact quickly melted away into alarm when he realised that it was not, in fact, his bed. He was just about to panic when he caught sight of the periodic table on the wall.

“How did I get in Sherlock’s..?”

John shook his head and forced his aching limbs to remove him from the mattress.

“Morning,” he said to the lump on the sofa, getting only a grunt in response.

“So, umm…” he bit his lip, uncertain as to the events of the previous night, unaware as to how he should proceed. He opened his mouth to say whatever he could think of.

“Shut up.” Sherlock sounded bored, speaking into the back of the sofa. “You were thinking too hard, it got annoying.”

John couldn’t fight the smile. “Right then. Care to explain last night to me so I don’t strain myself?”

Sounding extremely disinterested, Sherlock responded: “You couldn’t make it the rest of the way upstairs, so you slept in mine.”

“Ah.” The doctor felt rather awkward all of a sudden. Kicking one’s flatmate out of their own bed, and onto the sofa, was decidedly not on. He was about to apologise when Sherlock spoke again.

“I spent the night out here anyway. It’s fine.”

“Alright.” He relaxed, smiling at the still unmoving form monopolising the sofa. “Good. Tea?”

Without waiting for a reply, knowing he was unlikely to even get one, John went off to run the kettle, leaving Sherlock to wonder why on earth had he bothered to lie in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insanity can be defined by repeating the same action and expecting different results. John Watson might be going crazy. He wasn't quite sure yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has no beta reader, so any and all typos are my own.

John Watson was surprised to find that Sherlock Holmes was in fact rather good for him.

Don't get him wrong, the man was infuriating. He had no sense of propriety or privacy. He'd once walked right into the washroom when John was showering and stared brushing his teeth while prattling on about adipose cell decomposition of all things. And wasn't  _that_ an interesting conversation.

There were body parts in the fridge. Actual  _human_ body parts, poorly sealed and hardly sanitary, sharing the same space as the now (literally) bloody lettuce.

There was really no reason that John shouldn't want to smash the smug bastards nose in. And yet...

John was eating more (actual meals, with sides and everything). Sherlock found this endlessly frustrating for it caused their lives to be on hold several times a day without fail. At least, that was the impression that the doctor got.

But the nightmares were coming less and less frequently. He woke fewer nights with a throat sore from screaming. And as much of dick Sherlock was, at least he never said anything about the flashbacks.

They had developed a strange relationship, both working and domestic in the intervening few months since that first rooftop car chase. There were quiet nights in and dinner and crap telly coexisting with the stake-outs and almost fatal firefights. It was the furthest thing from normal John had ever experienced in his life, and he'd invaded Afghanistan.

On that note, he'd finally worked up the courage to contact a few of his old army mates that went home before him. After several very long and excited conversations, John found himself agreeing to a Friday night out at a fairly nearby pub. 

It wasn't exactly an unpleasant affair, but the nostalgia was too thick and the pockets too loose and John found himself slipping out relatively early, stumbling back to Baker Street on the same day that he left it. Sherlock was still awake - his bedroom door was wide open, as always, light still on.

John toed off his shoes, nearly tripping over them in the process as he tried to shrug away his jacket simultaneously.

He paused then, frozen in the arch of the kitchen doorway, staring at the projection of light at the end of the hall; knowing that he should go up to his own room, yet unable to make himself do so.

Without any input from his mind, his feet decided to take matters upon themselves. Working around the alcohol-induced cloud, they dragged him through the kitchen and deposited him just inside of his flatmate's bedroom.

Sherlock was in his pajama bottoms, propped up against the headboard with a pillow behind his back. Not conscientious of John's arrival, he continued typing away on his laptop.

 _I wonder if he's even blinking_ , the thought came unbidden to the blogger's mind as he watched his friend strike the keys as though he had an impending deadline bearing down upon him.

"Of course I'm blinking."

So John had said that out loud. Wonderful.

"Ah." He's moving on autopilot, meandering over to the bed and sitting by Sherlock's feet. The rapid clacking of the keys did not cease, nor so much as hesitate. "Case, then?"

He's rewarded with a forlorn sigh. "That would be ideal. However, it's just an experiment."

John nods and figures that he ought to go up to his own room now. But as he jumps to his feet, the room lurches and tilts and suddenly there is a hand gripping the back of his shirt and yanking him back onto the bed.He lands hard on his back, the hand quickly darting out of the course of impact to press down on his shoulder and preventing him from jolting back up or bouncing. Which was probably a good thing considering the currently surging nausea. 

Clenching his jaw, John looks up at Sherlock. The detective is in turn staring down at him, a slight frown marring his face. Slightly hushed he asks, "Are you alright?"

He swallowed thickly before managing a nod. 

"Try not to vomit on my bed." Sherlock relaxes and removes his hand, returning once more to his typing.

John gets his stomach under control and is just about to attempt rising from the mattress again when:

"You needn't bother."

He blinks, slightly startled by his friend's ability to read his mind. "What?"  _How eloquent, well done._

His question earned an eye roll and if John was not mistaken, a smile.  _He was beautiful when he smiled._

Sherlock froze, his smile getting slightly fixed and stiff. John blanched, all colour draining from his face as he realised his mistake. That sentence was meant to  _stay_ in his head, damn it.

For a long moment, the two men dared not do anything but stare at one another. How long the moment lasted John could not say. For all he knew, they could be stuck like this forever;transfixed into an infinite instant, as immobile as a statue or stain glass.

And then the moment passed. Sherlock blinked and shook his head. "You are  _very_ drunk. Don't try the steps." He offered another smile to his blogger. "I don't mind, I'll take the couch."

John could do nothing but nod. His eyelids were heavy, vision already swimming. It wasn't long before the steady  _click-clack_ of Sherlock's keyboard acting almost as a lullaby, preceding him in the steady march to sleep.

And if Sherlock started typing with only one hand, the other hesitantly stroking John's hair, it was no harm done. And if he were to stay until dawn...

Well, John would never need know.


	3. Chapter 3

It was barely a weak later and John had a date. Which Sherlock did not care about. He didn't.

No really, it did not matter in the slightest that John had a date with another boring female. It was just a date, it didn't mean anything.

It really did not make any sort of difference that John had left the house wearing his fuck-me jeans... or that he had that little smirk on his lips all night. It especially did not matter that his lip-licking had increased by thirty percent in the hour up until he left. Or that this was the fourth date with this particular imbecile thus far.

This was all irrelevant information; every last shred of it.

Which was why Sherlock had spent the evening curled up in his bed, glaring at a book, and most definitely  _not_ sulking.

But imagine his surprise when, barely after eleven, the door opened and he could discern Watson's distinctive post-dump trod trudge up the stair to B flat. It took an extreme amount of will-power for Sherlock to remain in his room. Typically after a break-up, John wants to be left alone, and he knew this. And although he does not often act like it is so, Sherlock does want to keep his friend at least relatively happy. So he sat in his room, trying to convince himself that he actually  _was_ reading the book propped up against his knees.

There was the sound of an opening cabinet... and the opening of a bottle.

So it was _that_ kind of night, then. Alright. That girl must have done a number on him, then.

Sherlock winced and put more energy toward the book in his lap.  _What was it again?_  

By the time Dr. Watson felt ready to face another human being, he was well past the point of inebriated. But he really needed to at least rant to someone. And although girlfriends are really not his area, Sherlock  _was_ his best friend. And only down the hall.

He debated a moment longer, then mentally shrugged. He'd put up with more than his fair share of bitching on his flatemate's end. It was only fair that Holmes did the same for him on occasion, was it not?

So, mind made up, John downed the remainder of his current glass of whiskey and ambled down to knock on Sherlock's door frame.

"Hm?"

Taking the hum as an invitation, John just strides in and flops down onto the bed, jostling Sherlock enough that the book slipped from his grasp, his page being lost in the suddenly flurry of motion.

" _Really,_ John?"

"Sorry." He offered up an apologetic grimace. "Didn't mean to land so hard."

Sherlock just sighed, and gave him a familiar, despairing look. Trying to sound as though he did not care one way or another, he asked "I thought you were having sex tonight? With..." He frowned, uncertain, "Bernice?"

"Beatrice."

"Ah." Sherlock continued staring at him. "I don't need to remember her name anymore, do I?"

"No." John sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No, you don't."

Satisfied, Sherlock scooped the book back up from the duvet and was in the process of trying to relocate his page when John spoke again, his tone much more glum. "She asked if I could put my shirt back on."

The book slipped from the detectives fingers as the meaning behind the words hit him. That  _idiotic_ woman asked John,  _his John,_ to put a shirt back on because she didn't want to look at his shoulder.

A growl nearly ripped out of his throat as he found himself imagining all of the things he could do to that woman. He could make her  _wish_ her shoulder was a smooth as John's. He could...

No. Stop.  _Not good._

What he did instead was make eye contact with John and said as sincerely, with as much feeling as he could manage, "She's an  _idiot._ "

And hoped that it didn't sound too much like  _I love you._

But even if it did, John's smile was worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, John should have seen this coming. Sherlock was just surprised it didn't happen sooner.

Sherlock Holmes was not a person who was ever meant to be still.

That was the only thought running through John's head as he sat in the uncomfortable bedside chair, listening to the steady  _beep_ of the hospital equipment. He was so tired, all he wanted to do was sleep. Yet he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away from the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.

The last case was a brutal one. It was beautiful at first, with the adrenaline and the thrill of the case and the singing of the blood pumping through both of their veins. Sherlock had truly been in his element then. Firing off one deduction after another in a truly brilliant display of intellect and John... well John might have a  _thing_ for clever. Not that he would ever tell his flatmate so.

But Sherlock - too caught up in his own brilliance - decided that John and he could make the arrest themselves before the Yarders got to the murderer's flat: a line of thought which was rapidly becoming a habit (that John had been vehemently protesting on deaf ears).

In hindsight, it really was bound to happen eventually.

It was over too quickly for John to react. One moment there was calm and silence. The place seemed empty. Yet it was under a minute of their entrance that the suspect appeared to come for no where with an aluminum bat.

John never had a chance to react. One moment, Sherlock was smile that just-for-John smile of his and the next there was a sickening  _crack._  And as the detective went down to the floor in a crumpled heap, John saw red. It began as the trickle of blood from is unconscious friend's nose and spread; growing around the Doctor's eyes in a haze until his vision clouded over with a blinding tide of red fury.

He didn't remember anything after that.

At least not until he was sitting on the front steps of the building, orange blanket around his shoulders. The blue and red lights of the squad cars flashed and blurred around him as he regained self-awareness. His eyes widened.

" _Sherlock?"_

Greg was kneeling in front of him. _When did he get there?_ "Hey, John. John?" He reached out and squeezed the doctor's arm in reassurance. "Are you with me?"

John wasn't going to have any small talk today. "Where is he?"

The Inspector sighed. "He's fine. Well... he's still unconscious but there shouldn't be any lasting damage. Probably be out until tomorrow, though."

John paled. " _Where,_ Greg?"

"Bart's," the man's voice was soothing. "I'll take you, come on."

And as John got up off of the stoop, only then did it occur to him to ask after the suspect. Sherlock would have been appalled.

At that Greg seemed genuinely amused. "You broke his arm, fractured a rib. quite impressive, mate."

All John could do was allow his jaw to drop.

That was a few hours ago. So here John was, in the middle of the night, sitting in an uncomfortable chair watching and waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

He was worried, despite a near constant stream of reassurance. So worried that he could not sleep. It did not matter how often Doctor's told him that his friend would be fine. John  _worried,_ (constantly, when it came to Sherlock).

Oh dear. He was starting to sound like Mycroft.

John was just about ready to start pacing when a nurse came in a handed him a  _flask_ of all things.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she just shrugged. "You look like you need it. I won't tell if you don't."

And as she winked and left the room, John just gave in and downed the contents. She was right, he couldn't handle being sober right now.

Time began to blur together as the liquor hit his system. The beeping of the monitor's fusing into a hazy stream of sound as John just sat there and waited.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when his eyelids began to droop. He might have had a little too much if he wanted to stay awake. He knew that he should probably go home, get in bed, but the thought of leaving Sherlock here was not a pleasant one. Sherlock  _hated_ hospitals, he would not be happy to wake up in one. Especially if John was not there to try to keep him from lashing out too harshly at the staff. So John had to stay.

But he was just so  _tired._ And the chair was uncomfortable. He just wanted to sleep but he couldn't leave Sherlock.

He reached out automatically, his hand carding itself through those dark curls of its own volition, reverently weaving the soft locks between his fingers. John sighed.

"Oh, you beautiful idiot, why do you  _never_ wait?"

Of course there was no response. John leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then giggled. "I'm drunk in a  _hospital,_ Sherlock. You'd be very disappointing in me if you were awake."

He rubbed his eyes, then bit his lip. Hesitantly, John ventured, "Do you think there's room up there for the both of us?"

And then, without even making the conscious decision to do so, John found himself easing into place along Sherlock's side.

He fell asleep to the rhythm of the monitors, his head pillowed of Sherlock's shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I do not have a beta. All mistakes are completely my own. And reviews are speed-boost buttons on my writing, just so you know.


	5. Chapter 5

John was going to get his flatmate drunk. It was now his mission for the evening.

They hadn't had a case in a month and Sherlock was bursting at the seams. His static energy was charging the very air of the flat, at times making it uncomfortable to even breathe.

The violin music had died about a week ago, replaced by random squealing from the now tortured instrument. And the smoking had gotten exponentially worse. Doctor Watson knew that something had to be done, however, he had very little idea as to what.

And then he had an epiphany.

"Sherlock?" He frowned at the motionless lump on the couch. "Sit up."

The detective groaned into the cushions, not moving a muscle.

"Come on," he pressed, brooking no argument, "up you get."

His friend gave another long-suffering sigh but did peel  himself off of the sofa, turning to give John a glare. A glare that very clearly read: _I'm up, now what?  
_

Without saying another word, John thrust a glass of scotch into Sherlock's hand a grinned, feeling quite pleased with himself. He sat next to him and started drinking the glass he had poured for himself, the bottle already resting on the coffee table before them.

Sherlock, however, did not drink. He just stared. And stared. In fact he was  _still_ staring when John got to the bottom of his glass.

Watson sighed, with patience, "You're supposed to drink it."

"I know that." Sherlock replied, snappish, as if insulted. "I just don't see the point."

John frowned, while pouring his glass back up, and didn't reply until he got through his first sip. When he did, it was with the same tone he always used whenever Sherlock failed to behave like a normal human being. 

"You...don't see the  _point?"_

Sherlock hated that tone.

He huffed, then launched into a tirade. "No, I do not, and I don't understand how you could have found one. Most alcoholic beverages have a strong, unavoidable,  _highly un_ _pleasant_ flavour. They contain no nutritional value, nor will they aid in hydration." He blinked. "As a matter of fact, alcohol is a diuretic, as you should know,  _Doctor,_ and does nothing but aide in the process of dehydration. The drinks more often than not have an almost absurdly high calorie count." Here, his voice turned scathing. "That is all without even mentioning the liver damage, nausea, stomach ulcers, headaches, loss of appetite, shortness of attention and mood, high levels of aggression, and brain damage. Along with the inducement of poor decision-making skills, loss of inhibition, and addictive properties."

He took a deep breath and sighed it out before concluding, "So, no: I really don't see the point."

John, who had just gaped at him for the entirety of the rant, gulped. "Christ, I  _need_  a drink after all of that."

As he downed his entire glass in a long gulp, Sherlock glared. Biting, he scolded, "Where you even listening to me?"

Amicable, "Yes. And that's the problem." He set his own glass down and took his flatmate's from him, getting a pained eye-roll in return.

"So what made you cook up this moronic plan?"

John shrugged, now just sipping absently at the amber liquid. "You were becoming unbearable, and I wanted to see what you were like drunk." Then suddenly patronizing, "But god forbid we damage a few bloody brain cells in that oh-so-important head of yours."

He was rewarded with a scowl. But he cold have sworn that just one corner of Sherlock's mouth tried to curve upwards. He was probably just imagining it, he had to be. The drink was starting to get to him, he wasn't thinking straight.

He giggled. _I_ _most certainly am not thinking straight,_ he though with a slight smirk.

"What?" Sherlock sounded puzzled.

Shit, he had to  _keep his internal narration_ internal,  _for fuck's sake!_ _  
_

Sherlock's expression went soft. Fond, "That would be best."

And they both froze and stared at each other, eyes locking them both in place. Unable to move or speak, all they could do was just  _stare._ John could think of nothing but grabbing a fistful of those angelic curls, threading his fingers and pulling tight, holding Sherlock in place so that he could crash their mouths together. He wished, but he did not act. And though the thoughts in his mind wandered, in the real world, all he did was lick his lips.

Sherlock's eyes followed John's tongue as it poked out over his lips, almost sighing as it disappeared again. He wanted to draw that tongue back out; catch it between his teeth and suck, pulling their bodies to press against one another and just  _take._

They both wanted, but neither moved nor spoke.

Suddenly, by some unseen signal, they both broke, the silence shattering into raucous laughter, John falling forward to lean into Sherlock's side as his frame shook with it. He nearly dropped his once again empty glass as he did.

John doesn't remember what happened next. But the next morning, when he woke up alone in Sherlock's bed yet again, he wished that he did.

Oh how he  _wished._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler: John hated the bitch.

Irene Adler. Irene  _fucking_ Adler.

John hated the bitch. But heaven forbid he told Sherlock that, because he seemed to be in love with the woman. That damn woman. John hated how she made him feel. How she made the jealously and rage and thinly veiled lust he had towards his best friend bubble up to the surface.

He would have been perfectly content to just let the Americans have her so that they could snap her pretty little neck. Instead, he had to help Sherlock solve her case only so she could double cross him in the end after all.

Watson wasn't sure if he has ever hated anyone more in is life. It didn't help that Sherlock still seemed oddly attached, even after her betrayal and subsequent disappearance. 

John swore that if he ever saw her again he'd shoot her himself. And he wasn't just saying that, either, as he told Greg on their latest pub night.

"I mean, sure, she was hot, but I thought he was  _gay!"_

"You of all people should know that there are more than two options."

"And what is  _that_ supposed to mean?"

Greg just gave him a look.

John laughed and shoved his friend lightly on the arm. "Okay," he said with good humor, "fair enough, mate."

The conversation drifted for a bit. For quite a while they were just two blokes discussing the football. But as the pints kept coming, The Woman kept returning unbidden to the doctor's mind.

"...do you think Sherlock's really a virgin?"

Lestrade choked and started coughing up his drink. " _Jesus, John!_ I don't care - and I  _especially_ don't want to know!"

John giggled and almost knocked over his pint. Insistent, "But really, what do you think?"

When he finally stopped coughing up a lung, Greg shock his head. "Sherlock and sex... they are not meant to go together, at least not in my head." Reluctant, "I highly doubt it though. I feel like it's something he would do 'for  _science._ '"

That just set John off again and he laughed even harder than before. "You're right! That fucking bastard would!"

Things started getting fuzzy around then, and John stumbled into Baker street less than two hours later. Though honestly, he still isn't sure exactly  _how_ he got there.

 Regardless, the flat was silent when he let himself in, mentally berating Sherlock's inability to shut the door (even though it might have been a good thing at the time). He nudged the door closed behind himself and managed to kick away his shoes without falling over. And so, as he cast off his jacket, John once again found himself wandering through the kitchen. His bodies carried him without conscientious thought, sweeping him away down the hall and through Sherlock's open (does he even realize they shut) door.

His flatmate was asleep, which was a rarity all by itself. He had his face smushed into the pillow farther from the door, limbs flying out in all directions under the duvet like branches below the earth. Without actually making the decision to do it, John peeled away a corner of the blanket and slipped under.

Sherlock sighed in his sleep and rolled slightly closer, an arm inadvertently throwing itself over John's waist. The doctor smiled and nestled in, anchored by the arm around his waist as he let sleep lap away at his mind.

And as his thoughts went quiet, he could have sworn he felt Sherlock pull him closer. So when he woke to an empty bed yet again, he tried not to let it hurt.

It's not like Sherlock had ever stayed before. Why would he?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson was beginning to think he might have a drinking problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely do not intend it that way, but there is a part of this chapter that might be read as dub-con. So if that might be a problem for you, proceed with caution.

It had been another night at the pub with his older friends. There were more of those now, and they were going well. John was starting to become confident in his ability to form a friend group beyond Baker Street and NSY.

Conversation had been easy and light, and John was feeling pretty good about himself when he made his inevitable midnight march to his flatmate's bedroom.

Sherlock was lying awake in the center of the bed, fingers steepled under his chin as he stared up at the ceiling. John eased himself down to lie only a couple centimeters away and watch his friend think.

Sherlock gazed vacantly at the ceiling, eyes occasionally flickering or darting across his field of vision. The soft orange glow of the street lamp was cast through the window and highlighted the sharp angels and panes of his ethereal face. His ice blue eyes caught the light and seemed to reflect it back, increasing the over-all brightness of the room.

He was beautiful, so bloody gorgeous, and John wanted to kiss him. "You're beautiful, you know?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked over to him and stared him down, analyzing.  _Shit._ John had had no intention of saying that aloud. But now that he had...

"I mean it." He swallowed, gathering his courage. "You're  _gorgeous,_ Sherlock. Surely someone's told you before?"

His friend stared back a moment longer, his mouth curving down into a slight frown. Uncertain, "It's been mentioned, yes. How much have you had tonight?"

John, shook his head. "That's not the point. Sherlock, you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen. I mean it."

He looked confused. "What are you saying?"

John took a deep breath, and then did what was probably the scariest thing he had ever done - and he invaded Afghanistan.

He just let go.

Before he even knew it, his hand cupped the back of Sherlock's neck, holding tight as he crashed their mouths together. He heard a startled grunt from Sherlock, but ignored it, nipping and sucking at his lips until he drew out a moan.

He tasted so good, John couldn't stop. He caressed his chest with his free hand, and as he felt Sherlock press into his touch, John let loose what little restraint he had left.

Sherlock's mind was reeling. John was kissing him. Their tongues slid and tangled together, his own quickly losing to John's. The doctor licked into his mouth and turned them quickly, straddling his waist and pressing down and -  _oh!_

There was a fire lighting in his belly and he thrust back up to meet him. John pulled back and Sherlock followed, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his blogger's waist. John was  _kissing_ him.

Things were starting to get hazy. Everything was getting lost, he couldn't think. All he could do was feel. Feel the fingers on his neck, warm and steady. The hand running up and down his side, leaving a trail of tingling sensation. And his lips, hot and so soft against his, drawing out little gasps and groans with every suck and nip. And John was sitting astride his lap, hard and squirming, and Sherlock's chest felt ready to burst.

John couldn't believe his luck. Sherlock was so fucking responsive. He kept making the most delicious little noises and John wanted to hear more, so much more. He wanted to hear the noises Sherlock would make when he touched him, when he stroked him; when he took him into his mouth and sucked. When he fucked him, bending him and half and pressing him into the mattress until he screamed.

He wanted to hear his genius  _lose his mind._

And it seemed that he was well on his way, because Sherlock could not think. His whole mind had become a mantra of  _John John John-John-_ John! He could only kiss and grip in return, grinding with him as all thought left his mind because  _John_ was kissing  _him._

But something wasn't right. Everything should have been perfect, he had wanted this for so long. And everything felt perfect. He gathered what little wits he had and tried to figure out what felt wrong. And truth be told, nothing did. It felt like heat and sex and his thoughts were slipping back into their mantra.

John slipped his hand between them and beneath the elastic of Sherlock's waist band. His hand wrapped around his cock and gave a long slow pull. Sherlock moaned and his hips jerked forward, trying to follow John's hand. 

"So fucking gorgeous, Sherlock."

And then as their mouths met again, Sherlock had his moment of clarity. John Watson was not kissing him.

The whiskey was.

He froze, not sure if he wanted this to go any further, or how to stop it. John pulled his hand out of his trousers and started mouthing at his neck. He bit down and Sherlock gasped.

"John."

He hummed, soothing the mark with his tongue. His hand moving from Sherlock's neck to card through his hair.

"John, I can't." He began to plead. "Just stop."

The doctor didn't seem to hear him, and the next thing he knew he was being pushed back down onto the mattress.

"John...  _please!"_

Now that he'd realized it, the stench of the liquor was all he could smell. It tainted the room and made his skin crawl. John didn't want this. He couldn't.

So as John's hands traveled down again, Sherlock surged forward, placed his hands on his shoulders, and  _shoved._ John went flying backward, over the foot of the bed, landing on the floor with a yelp and a solid thump.

Sherlock took in a deep shaky breath before crawling over to peer down at him. His friend hadn't moved, just sat there, sitting on the floor and starring up at him in complete and utter horror.

"Sherlock," he stammered. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. I didn't mean-"

"John!" He sighed, then spoke in a more gentle tone. "It's fine."

He got a confused frown in return. "Then why...?"

"You're drunk." Sherlock was quite embarrassed by the emotion creeping into his voice, "And I _want to,_ I really do. But I don't think that you feel the same."

John tried to interject, but he wouldn't have it. "You never even touch me unless you're drunk, John! You don't want me, I'm just convenient."

Watson had the decency to look appalled. And then he dropped the bomb. In a voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear, "But I  _love_ you!"

Sherlock froze, unable to do anything but blink in absolute shock.

"I do!" His voice grew stronger, more confident, "and its not just the alcohol, I swear. God, Sherlock, I think you're beautiful. I can't stop staring at you, not even when I'm sober. And you're brilliant, Sherlock, you-"

"SHUT UP!"

They both went still, even the detective himself startled by the shout. He took in a shuddering sigh, shook his head, and got up off of the bed. 

"Then tell me when you're sober, John." He walked over to the door and opened it. But right before he left, he called over his shoulder, "Don't try the stairs, I'd rather not take you to the A&E."

John flinched as the bedroom door slammed shut. So Sherlock did know that they close.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John should have told him. It might have made a difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I hate having a sad Watson as much as the next girl, but... It must be done.

In the end, John never got his chance to say it.

The next morning saw a series of three highly skilled break-ins by none other than James Moriarty. So with no warning, Sherlock was on the case: there was no room for sentiment.

So John bit his tongue and did his job. He was Sherlock's sounding board, his assistant. He ran his errands and interviewed suspects. He barely ate and almost never slept, but most of all he  _worried._  

There was something not quite right with Sherlock. He was getting twitchy, agitated. Not at all what he was normally like on a case. John almost wanted to blame his behavior the other night, but he wasn't that egotistical. There was no way his drunken actions could have had  _that_ big of an affect of his friend.

When that little girl started screaming was when everything began to fall apart. Sherlock was convinced that everyone he knew was now his enemy, that they were all going to turn on him if they hadn't already.

John did not want to admit it, but he was probably right.

The next thing he new Sherlock was holding a gun to his head and then they were running. They ran across London, away from their former co-workers and into their new status as fugitives and John never looked back. He never even tried. After all, how could he? Sherlock needed him.

And oh, how John loved him.

They found themselves in the basement of Bart's bloody hospital, hiding from the law and Moriarty both. Sherlock sat against a counter, throwing a ball against the opposite cabinet. There grew an endless litany of bounce, hit, catch. **  
**

Over and over, a three note beat repeated into the silent air of the lab.  The ball hit the floor, the cabinet door, and then Sherlock's hand. _Bounce, hit, catch._ Over and over. It was almost like a waltz.

John really needed to sleep.

But everything was becoming that beat, that repetitive  _one two three, one two three, one two three..._

Hours passed that that way. An endless rhythm of Sherlock Holmes playing catch with himself in a beat of three. All the while John sat there and worried. And thought. 

_Just tell him,_ his mind screamed, nearly pleaded.  _You have to tell him._

But in the end, John never did.

Because before he knew it, his phone was ringing (the waltz of the squash ball interrupted) and a stranger was on the other end of the line telling him that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. It was as if his whole world has come screeching to a halt. He hung up the phone and started screaming and ranting. He shouted abuse at Sherlock (his best friend) all because the only thought he was capable of having at that moment was that of Mrs. Hudson - sweet, maternal, Mrs. H, scared and bleeding out all alone without her boys.

And Sherlock didn't even seem to care, that heartless bastard.

So John just lost it. He screamed and shouted abuse, called him a machine, and left, practically slamming the door on his way out. Perhaps a tad dramatic, but at the time, he thought it was a perfectly reasonable response.

It was when he ran back into Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson to not only be minus a bullet wound, but her normal chipper self, that John understood. Sherlock  _loved_ his land lady. She was like his mother. He would not be indifferent to news of her being shot. Not unless he new with utter certainty that it wasn't true.

 All the blood drained from his face as Watson realized just how big of a mistake he made.

He got back to the hospital as quick as he could but it just simply wasn't fast enough.

_He should have told him._

Sherlock's voice was strained on the other end of the line. His words were tight and clipped, not their usual deep melodic flow. Just listening to his voice sounding so hurt felt like daggers in the doctor's chest.

_He should have told him._

The phone call was over too quickly, John didn't have a chance. He should have screamed. He should have cut Homes off, demanded that he see reason. He should have made Sherlock follow his orders for once and step back off of that ledge.

_He should have said that he loved him._

The sight of Sherlock Holmes plummeting to the pavement will be burned into his retinas for the rest of his life, John knows it. It will become as much a part of him as the sound of gunfire and the smell of burnt flesh. It will haunt his dreams, sending him hurtling back to wakefulness in the middle of the night screaming, waking Mrs. H and the married ones next door.

_He should have stopped him!_

He will be filled with regret. A thick sticky tar in his throat that will make talking next to impossible. Sometimes it will be as if air can't even fit through, just sticks in his throat just like words. Just like food.

_Maybe... maybe it was his fault._

The guilt will eat him alive, a pressure digging into his sternum, twisting like a dull blade. He will feel as though he will collapse under it - the sheer physical weight of his guilt.

_He ought to have seen the warning signs._

He will loose the ability to write. The blog will feel as a tombstone to him, a memoir of a time gone and never to come again. The words will become ghosts, remnants of dead men.

_He was a doctor, he should have known._

Food will stick in his throat. John will forget to eat, he'll forget that he needs nutrients to function. Apples will constitute full meals and his belts will get tighter. Just like before Sherlock.

_Sherlock was his best friend. How could he have missed it?_

But all of that will come slowly, ease in when he's not looking. What happens in the hours after the man he loves jumps off of a rooftop is an ugly, undignified fit.

John Watson screamed. He ranted, he raved. He threw punches at the Yarders. In the end, Greg had to take him home in the squad car. Back to Baker Street, to Mrs. Hudson who still didn't know that one of her boys was dead (and the other wasn't quite alive anymore either).

There was tea that he didn't drink and advice that he didn't listen to. There were hugs that he could barely feel.

It felt like it took years to final be alone up in the flat, but he got there eventually. And that was when his mind started telling him that it might have been his fault. That perhaps, if he had just told Sherlock the truth - if he had known that he was loved, and not only because he was clever - maybe he wouldn't have jumped.

In the end it was with a pain growing in his leg and a creeping hollowness in his chest that John crawled into Sherlock's bed. With a bottle on the sheets next to him, he drank himself to sleep.

He never shed a tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this is not the end.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once in his life, Sherlock was glad his blogger was drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terrible person who didn't post this chapter for this long. Forgive me?

It was jagged at first.

Like an open wound, serrated and raw, they didn't fit together anymore. there was screaming and blame. There were insults and blame cast by both parties. It was John's tears and Sherlock's guilt and the things that he should have done, should have said, hung heavy in the air.

On his first day back, Sherlock was so full of hope and relief to finally be back. Back in England, back at Baker Street, back  _with John._

On the second day the hope was gone, replaced with guilt. There were empty bottles of whiskey were his ashtrays once were. John's waist had shrunk too far. The kitchen had as much food in it as the day John had first moved in, and it was all unacceptable. He was appalled. Not that this had happened, but that it was him that had done this to his doctor.

By the end of the fourth day, Sherlock grew resigned. This was his life now, and he earned it. Angry silences and forlorn sighs, those were his penance. He had saved his Doctor, but lost his friend. And that was a cost he would have to live with.

At the end of the first week the silences grew shorter, and that was when the hope began to return.

It was almost a month into his re-habitation of the flat when it happened again. And though he'd never admit it Sherlock was never more glad in his life to realize that Watson was inebriated.

It started with a knock on his bedroom door. He could hear the nervous shuffling of John's feet on the floor. Sherlock sighed, turned the page in his book and called, "Come in."

The door eased open, John's face peeking out behind it like a nervous animal. "Hey."

He really was adorable. "I said come in." Sherlock sighed, gesturing to the bed beside him.

With almost comical relief, John hurried over to the bed and dropped down next to him, offering a sheepish smile. "I've been a prick."

The detective frowned in confusion. "You have?"

John nodded, with a frown. I shouldn't have been... you know?" When he got nothing but a blank look from Sherlock he sighed, "I haven't really been fair. I should have forgiven you sooner."

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up in surprise. "You've forgiven me?" It was a hushed whisper, almost reverent.

"Of _course!"_ John reached out and cupped his cheek, fingers slowly stroking over his skin. "Sherlock, how could I not?"

He closed his eyes and leaned into John's hand. "I didn't think-"

"Of course not, you're an idiot."

Sherlock couldn't fight the peal of broken laughter. "You have no idea how I missed that."

John's laughter joined his. "What, being called an idiot?"

He nodded, and drew away. "Go to sleep John."

His blogger frowned, disappointment clear in the twitch of him mouth. However, his eyes were drooping, and his blinks were coming with approximately 12.4% more frequency. After a few moments of silence John nodded and laid down, leaning into Sherlock's side with a dreamy sigh.

"Will you stay?"

"This is my bedroom."

"No, I mean..." his words were coming slowly, "Here. With me. In Baker Street."

Sherlock shifted so his chest was pressed to John's back and pulled him in. "Of course, John. You didn't even need to ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap. I was going to add more, but honestly, it just kind of organically ended here, you know? Anything more would have been like pulling teeth.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
